Marcus Toral

From the Pages of Aphasia

Marcus Toral
From the Pages of Aphasia

Vincent Carida is a physician and poet. He suffers from aphasia, and has used poetry as a way to express himself despite this condition. Below, please enjoy a selection of some of his poems.

Confudido

Y no entiendo
no entender
la flor en mí.
Pétalos dispersos
del vacío de nadas.
Me confunde:
cuando me miras
no me ves
cuando me miro
no me encuentro.

 

del cerebro lerdo

La historia del cerebro lerdo
se narra con ausencias.
La pícara dicción
in the end
final oscuridad
tiempo de suspenso.
Desconectado
painless, beneath the table
It is night, noight
night
I say!
fruitless moons rounding
sol.tary breakdown
trizas de mí yacen en el cuarto
spilled
absorbed by the wooden floor
the photographer displays
shadows
no entiendo el gris
dark
noche
PSSST!
Last year
Is infinitely remote
A year from now
Endless

Enumerador

Quizá
una forzada
h
i
l
e
r
a
progresiva
de números
o de alfabetos
logrará suplir
a mi memoria
con una razón
para existir
un día más.
Quizá
si comienzo
a enumerar
un: el pasto
dos: el nube
(a: la nube}
tres: amnesia;
si comienzo
a tornar en mí
la multitud que roba
mis memorias
y enúmero
en un esfuerzo nuevo
eight: el sacilegio
(d: la traición)
nueve: exilio
la distancia
el mensaje
sonoro
extinguido
unos metros
diez: el exilio
(f: los muertos)
fácil solución
de espectros
once: el lago
g:
doce:
h:
Silencio

 

Mañana

Esta mañana
sentado
al sol naranja
ordenando
las pocas palabras
que me quedan
ocre teñidas
por el recuerdo,
esas palabras
quebradizas
se hicieron letras
en mis manos
 

Confused

And I don't understand
not understanding
the flower in me.
Petals dispersed
in a vacuum of void.
It confuses me:
when you look at me
you cannot see me
when I gaze at myself
I cannot find me.

 

the idle brain

The history of the idle brain
is narrated with absences.
The roguish diction
in the end
final darkness
suspended time.
Detached
painless, beneath the table
It is night, noight
night
I say!
fruitless moons rounding
sol.tary breakdown
fragments of myself in the room
spilled
absorbed by the wooden floor
the photographer displays
shadows
I do not understand gray
dark
night
PSSST¡
Last year
Is infinitely remote
A year from now
Endless

Enumerador

Perhaps
a forced
l
i
n
e
progressive
of numbers
or of alphabet
may supply
my memory
with a reason
to exist
one more day
Perhaps
if I start
to enumerate
one: the pastures
two: el nube
(a: la nube)
three: amnesia
if start
to turn in me
the multitude that robs
my memories
and enumerate
in renewed vigour:
eight: the sacrilege
(d: the treason)
nine: exilie
the distance
the sonorous message
extinguished
a few metres
ten: the exilio
(f: the dead)
easy solution
of spectres
eleven: the lake
g:
twelve:
h:
Silence

 


 

Morning

This morning
sitting under
red-yellow-sun
arranging
few words
remaining to me
ochre-tinged
for my memory
those brittle words
changed
into letters
on my hands